


a flower of autumn

by monomania



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Language of Flowers, M/M, Musicians
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-04-13 18:46:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14118609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monomania/pseuds/monomania
Summary: There were the colors of spring, permeating every corner of his vision in all possible directions, splashing around in joyous bursts of the most unique hues; there was the summer’s energy, contagious and absolute, wondrously waltzing barefoot against the welcoming and dazzling flora; there was the comfort of winter, wrapping in on itself like a scarf made out of warm light and teeming with hope for the days to come.And yet, Viktor’s favorite season was the autumn.





	a flower of autumn

**Author's Note:**

> this is something i started out of nowhere just to see where it would lead, and also to make sure i could still write like a decent human being.......... turns out i can't. oops?  
>  **edit:** shoutout to @izzyisozaki who is the loveliest person on earth and gave me a few pointers to make this a little better! ily  <3
> 
> this fic wasn’t beta’d, english is not my first language, yadda yadda yadda.  
> without further ado, i hope you enjoy! (◕ᴗ◕✿)

There were the colors of spring, permeating every corner of his vision in all possible directions, splashing around in joyous bursts of the most unique hues; there was the summer’s energy, contagious and absolute, wondrously waltzing barefoot against the welcoming and dazzling flora; there was the comfort of winter, wrapping in on itself like a scarf made out of warm light and teeming with hope for the days to come.

And yet, Viktor’s favorite season was the autumn.

Something that abides all limits and still works its way around it in charm and delight. Impossibilities made possible through beauty and excellence; almost like a direct retelling of his own life, and curiously, it also had all that was lacking in-between the cracks of his façade.

Crocus, dahlia, begonia and snowdrop. Glee, strength, happiness and rebirth.

(Somehow, it fit him—and alarmingly so, like a dearly missed piece of a jigsaw puzzle who bid goodbye a few lifetimes prior.)

His work as a violinist was just that: an empire created from scratch in order to make things better, greater, whilst masterfully avoiding the terrible rules imposed on his beloved music. And Viktor had been applauded for it for quite some time, but with so many years having his handle as a powerhouse for classical music all over the world, there was only so much that could be made anew.

It became a game of cat and mouse, his ephemeral inspiration and him.

There was gossip—more so than usual. Would he retire? Would he take in pupils in order to teach whatever godsend knowledge he’d acquired over the years? Everybody craved for answers. Everybody wanted to  _know_.

Yet, nobody knew.

(Not even himself.)

Nowadays, a few weeks after his last competition, Viktor allows himself some peace of mind in the solitude of his home, as his newest golden-crusted award stares at him judgmentally from across the living room. A Russian movie is playing on the television, thoroughly forgotten, as Viktor scratches Makkachin’s favorite spot behind her fluffy ear. At times like these, he tries to go back in time. Back to when inspiration wasn’t a part of his daily struggle and passion overflowed in all his musical compositions.

And then, the  _ghost_  settles in once more.

It’s a familiar feeling more than anything else; a distant memory that embraces him with care and makes Viktor wish he wasn’t so forgetful. The only certain share of this recollection is the boy glued to his side, breath fanning against his cheeks and face scrunched in deep concentration as he taught Viktor all there was to know about playing a violin.

A charmingly sweet smile and warm, brown eyes.

( _Autumn eyes_ , Viktor muses with affection.)

The boy was a long-gone neighbor who’d stayed next door for only a couple of years, and while Viktor had been too young and innocent to notice it back then, he reckons the warm feeling within his chest set aflame by soft and gentle prods had been a pure, budding love. Even years later, childish infatuation or not, that had likely been the most meaningful emotion he’d ever felt for someone, and Viktor often kept those memories filed away as his safe haven for whenever he needed a place to escape to.

But he also remembers the boy’s departure, sudden and wordless for the single exception of an incomplete composition for a song. And thus even his sweetest paradise leaves him alone and with a sour aftertaste in his mouth, as most things in his life did.

(It had been like a magician teaching the coin trick to a child, but quickly taking the last piece of knowledge away in a final strike; he’d shown Viktor the wonders behind the strings of a violin and the warmth of connecting with another person, but still chose to leave him behind without so much as an explanation as to  _why_.)

Sometimes, Viktor—the deemed overly-confident, unreachable Viktor—ponders about his worth, about if there will ever be someone in his life who will stay for good.

(The song left for him had been hauntingly serene; a befitting farewell if nothing else, but the way he played it to exhaustion and committed it to memory were pretty telling of his state of mind. Although the overwhelming feeling of longing and desertion still lingered, the wishes for the boy’s return had been lost to the long, painful years in-between. He still remembered his surname, and while Viktor had restlessly searched for any Katsuki in the world of music, it was all to no avail.)

(Another blow to whatever remained of his silly, childish hope.)

Viktor had travelled all around in order to further improve his “collection”–titles, medals, awards, commendations—, likely to repel the doubt eating at the corners of his mind. Still, in the end, most of the things around him had shown themselves meaningless, and he never failed to return to what he perceived as home. In there, where the ghosts of his distant memories sat across from him at the table during breakfast and snuggled up against his side every time he dared to sit down for a movie, or even try for a chat with one of his few friends scattered across the world. And it’s during one of those moments of contemplation—in which shadows make a home out of his heart, crawl softly under his skin and whisper sweet nothings against his bones coated in exhaustion—that he hears a loud thumping sound coming from next door for the first time in sixteen years.

Viktor runs curiously to the window and peeks between the curtains. He spots a moving truck, as well as a handful of people carrying boxes. Viktor doesn’t recall Mrs. Gomez saying anything about someone buying the old house, and although he’s certain she wouldn’t miss the opportunity of a good gossip, he quickly attributes his newfound lack of intel to her elderly ways and faltering memory.

Shrugging at the obvious anomaly on his old friend’s behavior, Viktor searches around his kitchen for an appropriate welcome gift. He finds a dubious box of Belgian cookies given to him at  _least_  two weeks ago, as an offer of congratulations on his latest award, by Mrs. Brzenska and her overly-enamored granddaughter.

Deeming the cookies relatively safe, he makes a quick trip to the neighbor house.

 

As he arrives at the front door, two men are entering the home with the last boxes from the truck. Viktor lags behind, reticent.

(To be completely honest, he's expecting this newcomer to be an overwhelmingly solitary and old person. Maybe a widowed man in his 80s, attracted to the cottage-like neighborhood and all the single women in an equally late stage of their lives; Viktor’s pretty sure he’s the only person under 50 to live in a radius of 10 kilometers, give it or take.)

As he assesses the piles of boxes and the furniture quite literally turned upside down, he catches someone circling around the house out of the corner of his eye. Once the sight of the stranger fully registers on his brain, Viktor is overtaken by a strange sense of familiarity; as slightly-shocked and warm brown eyes stare him back, the first thing he can think of is  _autumn_.

“Um,” the stranger offers, largely unhelpful.

Viktor can relate.

“I, ah,” he starts, not really knowing what to do with himself, or his hands, or— _ah, yes, the cookies_. “Are you the person moving in?”

The—exceedingly attractive and very much within his age range—Asian man blinks, and something akin to disappointment flashes across his gaze; but before Viktor can ponder the meaning of his reaction, however, the emotion is gone as quickly as it came, and a stiff smile replaces his previously uneasy expression.

“I am, actually,” he nods as he extends his right hand to greet him, voice surprisingly even despite his visible discomfort. “I’m Yuuri.”

“Just Yuuri?” Viktor asks.

“Just Yuuri,” he quickly provides.

Viktor purses his lips in wonder, but nods back not a moment later with an offer of his own name. Whatever his reason for the lack of the surname may be, he’s sure he’ll find out soon enough. Deciding on keeping his policy of good neighborliness, he finally hands Yuuri the box of goods he’d brought with himself. The man seems slightly taken aback by the courtesy, but accepts the gift nonetheless.

“Oh, you’re too kind. There was no need for—” he stops, blinks, inspects the polka-dotted box more closely. “Aren’t these Mr. Brzenska’s?”

“Ah! Have I been caught?”

Yuuri doesn’t seem to take offense in it as they both share a laugh over the old lady’s enthusiastic opinion on sweets. The man also readily offers—with a slight hint of urgency—for him to come inside and have a cup of tea, or coffee.  _To go along with the cookies_ , he explains. And Viktor promises all miscellaneous information about the neighborhood he can possibly recall as compensation for the whole welcome gift fiasco.

“It’s a deal,” and they shake hands on it.

The cookies are surprisingly good, and while Yuuri had settled for plain, Gunpowder tea, Viktor had delighted himself on his company’s astounding coffee-making abilities. Over two whole boxes of goods later (one from Viktor, and the other earlier given to Yuuri by Mrs. Brzenska herself), they share an easy conversation about nearby tourist spots, update each other on the latest neighborhood gossip, complain (but not without affection) about Mr. Chun’s furious passion for fat kittens, and cautiously proceed to learn more about each other.

Yuuri has been recently hired as a music teacher for pianists, mostly accompanists; he was born in Japan, moved to Detroit still pretty young, went back to his slow-moving hometown for a few years, and now decided to live at his family’s old house by himself—and the slip of his tongue has Viktor making endless questions about the Katsukis, which he promptly shuts down; he has an older sister who’s long settled in her career in aviation; his parents own a hot springs back at Japan; and he only has a profile on Instagram so he can chat with a few friends who live far away.

Viktor has been a violinist for fifteen years, considered a prodigy and a genius even at age of 29; he was born in Russia but also moved to America at a very young age; he has an adopted younger brother named Yuri who's currently pursuing a career in figure skating; he's big on social media despite living in a small house at the end of the world; his love for poodles is endless and his biggest companion in life has been Makkachin for over ten years.

(It’s the easiest, most enjoyable conversation Viktor has had in quite some time. The realization sparks in him a growing interest that goes far beyond his initial attraction, and Viktor finds himself feeling a simple-minded happiness he didn’t know he had been craving.)

As they wrap up their afternoon snack, Yuuri invites Viktor to have a look around the house, since he seemed to know the family who previously lived in there. Viktor accepts the invitation more due the strange urge to spend time with him rather than out of necessity to appease the heart of his childhood self. Heaven knows how many times he actually broke into that house in order to mop around over being left behind.

(Obviously, he doesn’t say that to Yuuri.)

On their way, his host makes a small comment on also having owned a poodle, once—and Viktor is positively delighted.

“Oh! So you like poodles?” he blurts, overjoyed. “I should’ve brought Makkachin with me, then! I’m sure she would have loved to meet you!”

Yuuri smiles happily at that, and Viktor finds himself each time more bewitched by the sight of him.

“I’d love to meet her, as well,” he says.

“Then it’s decided! We’ll go to my house after this.”

Yuuri stammers something unintelligible and walks faster up the stairs, turning at the second door to his left that had already been left open. Viktor follows, going back to his questions about Yuuri’s family, but all inquiries come to a close as he allows himself to feast his eyes on what seems to be a music room. The instruments around the place are somewhat familiar and startlingly well-kept; if Viktor remembers correctly, the Katsukis were music enthusiasts. And although none of them had gone about it professionally until that point, they all had their own specialty—which explained the mystery boy’s proficiency in the violin at such a young age.

(Absent-mindedly, Viktor wonders if he still plays it.)

Viktor hums. “If I play you something, will you tell me more about them?”

Yuuri’s eyes light up in excitement, and if at first he seemed entirely unwilling to share information on the Katsukis, he certainly looks amendable now. The man stops to consider it only for a brief moment, and then nods excitedly at the suggestion. Viktor considers the options that might leave a good impression, as well as amaze him enough to make Yuuri tell everything he wants to know.

 _(Why did he leave? Why didn’t he say anything? Did he_ hate _me?)_

He takes his preferred instrument from its case at the corner of the room, taking the all-too-familiar position with the violin safely kept underneath his cheek and around his hand. Viktor softly drags the bow across the thin strings, creating a single long and elegant sound that soon enough fades into nothingness. When he opens his eyes again, Yuuri gives him a puzzled look.

He smiles teasingly and suppresses the urge to bow as he does after every competition; tilting his head, he quips, “Well?”

His host seems to catch on soon enough. Yuuri laughs good-naturedly and shakes his head in what seems to be defeat. Viktor feels captivated.

“Are you really that interested in knowing?” he asks, autumn eyes crinkling with a lifelong fondness.

Viktor shrugs. Since this beautiful stranger seems to hold the answers for most of his disillusioned childhood inquiries, he might as well ask.

“Can’t blame me for being curious, can you?” he quickly shoots back, voice filled with mock-hurt. “He did leave without a single word! I was heartbroken for a long time.”

It’s an exaggeration if he’s ever seen one.

(It really isn’t.)

Just as he adjusts the grip on the violin and is about to permit muscle memory to kick in, Viktor is interrupted by Yuuri’s voice, more fragile than he thought he’d ever hear.

“He didn’t leave out of his own volition,” Yuuri says. “He was just a kid.”

Viktor’s eyes soften.

Naturally, he knows that’s exactly what happened. Viktor is not half of the self-absorbed idiot people often perceive him to be, and honestly, it doesn’t take much to put two and two together. If a family has to move away for whatever reason, it won’t be up for a child—of only 10 years of age, no less—to decide to stay behind. It’s ridiculous to even consider harboring any sort of grudge, but in his pain upon facing solitude and the struggle with a wilting soul across the many years, it was a lot easier to blame someone else. Someone who wasn’t even there to tell him he was being a complete ass.

(Somehow, he’s glad he finally has someone to do so.)

“I suppose,” he simply answers, praying to not sound as chocked up on emotions as he feels.

Hope suddenly blooms within his heart; it’s a lot easier to believe in something when someone else says it. Has the boy missed him at all? Has he talked to Yuuri about him before he moved in? Where could he be, and what sort of person could he have turned into?

“U-um, Viktor?” Yuuri calls, and he realizes he’d been daydreaming this whole time, his loose hand making the violin strings complain in a small banshee-like screech.

Sparing a winded laugh, Viktor waves off his neighbor’s concern, and finally starts playing.

Unlike his initial plan of going with a well-known classic composition, the urge to go back to the soft tunes belonging to the biggest farewell of his childhood has him powerless. He faintly registers Yuuri’s gasp, as well as the sound of him taking a seat a few seconds later, but it’s overall too late to swim back to the surface of his consciousness. It’s like Viktor becomes one with the instrument, and the sounds come out almost in instinct. A well-practiced and slightly painful emotional rollercoaster. The only concert he’s ever truly willing to partake in.

He keeps his eyes closed, allowing the melody to overcome all that he is, longing dripping from the low tunes of the song. Viktor had always taken and portrayed this musical composition as one of ruthless goodbye, but for reasons he can’t explain, now he sees it as a cry for a loved one.

_Please, come to me._

And when a string of equally emotional piano notes join in not a minute later, he feels thoroughly devastated; shaken to his very core as never before. It’s only through sheer willpower and immense self-control that his movements aren’t deterred altogether, and as his eyes search for the piano in the room, Viktor is graced with the sight of Yuuri—beautiful, loveable Yuuri, having his lithe fingers masterfully matching his violin’s tempo.

Crocus, dahlia, begonia and snowdrop. The autumn eyes.

 _Oh_ , he thinks. And suddenly all pieces click into place.

Before he realizes, he’s stopped playing. Yuuri pays him company in the absolute silence, hands anxiously wrapping around themselves atop his lap as he avoids Viktor’s gaze like it’s the plague.

 _Oh_ , he thinks. His chest feels too full and constricted, face flushing in both recognition and helpless infatuation, in—

“Yuuri?” he asks, because his mind is running a mile per minute, and he can’t bear anything else.

 _Please_ , he tells himself.  _Please_.

The song makes sense, then. A composition for two. Separation and reunion.

That’s why Yuuri worked with accompanist routines. He had made the song for them to play it together.

Yuuri had hoped to come back to him all along.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and Viktor realizes that Yuuri is  _crying_. “My family had to go back to Japan. I’m sorry I couldn’t say goodbye. I’m sorry, I’m—”

Viktor bolts to the piano stool and immediately kneels beside him, face taken by worry.

“Oh, _Yuuri_ ,” he coos softly, careful to grant him with his personal space. But the moment Yuuri turns to him, tears streaming down his flushed cheeks, Viktor embraces him and feels nothing short of a fool for not noticing it earlier.

_Crocus, dahlia, begonia—_

“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” he finally says, breathing heavily as he feels himself being filled with mixed and overpowering emotions. “You’re  _here_ , you—”

“I couldn’t say goodbye,” Yuuri interrupts, swallowing around the words carefully. “Because I didn’t  _want_  to say goodbye. And I’m sorry.”

_That was childish, and I’m sorry._

Viktor purses his lips, resting his forehead against Yuuri’s as he searches for something—anything—in his eyes; it took him very little time to stop crying, fortunately, but his eyes and nose are still very much red. The Russian sweeps a finger over his cheekbone, gaze lingering for longer than what would be considered appropriate, and just like that, Yuuri flushes bright red.

“V-Viktor—” he stammers, but doesn’t move away from him.

He might be entirely mistaken about this, but with the feeling Yuuri is giving off it's almost as if they’re about to kiss, eyes dropping to each other’s lips more often than not. The temptation is too great; his childhood affections suddenly seem requited and the very object of his infatuation seems just as a goner as he is, if not  _more_. And if the boy in his memories kept his own younger self on his toes, this fully-grown version of his past—Yuuri, a rather handsome, if not utterly  _beautiful,_  charming man—certainly does the trick to get him more than a little shaken. His tongue peeks out to wet his lips, and he’s just about to make a move when Yuuri skittishly raises his head and places a soft, lingering kiss against his brow.

Oh.

“I-I still haven’t met Makkachin, and you promised you’d show me your house, s-so…” Yuuri sputters as his words trail off, face beet red, and Viktor  _loves_  him.

 _Oh_.

“Is that right?” he quips back, feeling warm all over. “Well, we better fix that, then.”

**Author's Note:**

> feedback is loved! (◕▿◕✿)  
> you can also find me at https://odinbytiye.tumblr.com/


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